I was inspired to write a story. I have written other stories but I really like this one. I put real elements from my own experience in this. I used Xella https://www.deviantart.com/michaelleach ... -680734315 in this picture for a character template and when I make other stories I will use other models or maybe make my own characters. This is not intended to say what the models would want but rather to use a tangible person as a concept piece.
Here is the story.
It was finally happening and it did not lack the finesse of fear. One of Xelle's biggest fears was her experience in the quicksand would rob it of it's dangerous edge. A common thing that happens to WAMers, quicksand fetishists, sinkers or whatever you call them is the more experience they get in deep mud the harder it is to acquire the experience of true surrender that comes with, in this case, sinking into a bottomless bog completely alone and far from any help. It had to have the mock foundation of suicide rehearsal, the attitude of a completely helpless situation of someone being caught in quicksand cinematically while being completely opposite on the spectrum from it's cheesy counterpart and having the comic irony of making the sinker in question think they might have a mental illness for having the audacity of being skilled at dangerous fun.
It's not like there are countless people that get in water they can't touch the bottom of while being shoulder deep and swimming for miles in it isn't a right of passage when it's a liquide. But the prejudice of something thick enough the leave footprints in, cradle your face in a meniscus and muffle the form of your body in sensual bliss was evident especially her own prejudice against her self in the form of self doubt. but then again less than half of the human population knows how to swim but there are still places where deep mud is a right of passage. People in Scotland often jump in bogs and there are even people in the world that will swim in manure for fun. "Gotta love the Scotts" she thinks to herself. What is socially acceptable different places made her question her sanity more than hobby choice. She thinks to herself amused as she term 'solid swimming' occurs for her to say to herself or other sinkers as a joke.
One of the hard things she found out is that having a hobby such as this was not only heresy of societal norms but a heresy to her own doubt in her athletic ability. Granted she never aspired to be an athlete, at least she didn't know she did. The motor skills this hobby involved caused a person who is into this to pick up the movements quickly but at the same time cause a non-sinker to be pathetically stuck and often killed. Ubiquitously speaking safety was nonnegotiable in any sport but for some reason people who like to surrender to quicksand through the vector of fetish, hobby or aesthetic tastes develop this magical ability to never get stuck, go completely under and crawl back up as well as glide for some time on the surface without going inconveniently deep. This nautiloid understanding of immersing one's self in their favorite morass becomes it's own obstacle because although you can find more challenging mud pits you never forget your first time. The romantic intimidation of not being able to find a bottom as your efforts to find one draw you deeper into the mud. The thrill of being so far from the 'edge' of a pit that no gymnastics could reach it other than patient 'swimming.' The contentment of knowing you are now in a new realm of experience because you can never go back to your old self as your innocence gives way to self actualized confidence.
The substance of what made sinking so rewarding is the transactional nature of being hugged, resisted and enveloped by ideally an endless mass of mud that was technically solid but soft enough to never pretend to support your weight as even the most reclined position created a forensic meniscus that traced the outline of the body. In order the go higher you had to surrender some of your body by having your hands sink decently into it. In order the reach the surface each body part experienced the toll of being caked so thick in mud that it hid any trace of a submerged part's humanity to where even if you made it to the surface and laid flat you still, in a sense, would be under it no matter what. Even going under meant that it took it's time sealing the edges of your downward path back together.
Each pit had a different personality, mood, relationship to the sinker and story but ideally there should be no loose water on the surface, no sticks under the surface or deceptively........ shallow areas. You did not really float in the stuff but were supported by friction in an almost infinitely wider range of intermediate positions than bobbing could attain. The physics could be said to be inverted but even that polarized dichotomy would not do the experience of sinking justice.
Mapping out the quicksand pits was unavoidably an auxiliary hobby of Xella's. after tracking down the bounty that would become the pit before her she made her way to the boggish land paying little mind to the roads she would have to travel or that her 'madness' would cause a seamless transition between concrete roads and dirt roads in the woods. One random excerpt from her thoughts could amount to as follows. "concrete road. dirt road. I'm slow today. I've been on dirt roads for a while. I know more how to navigate dirt roads than regular roads. Mud has dirt in it. Of course, concrete can be squishy. After conquering mud I have to sink in concrete."
A ruthlessly benign sight to the average person the blackish gray mudflats being show through the trees caused a spike of adrenaline in her. She knew this was a nice, big, secluded place she would not be found. "Not be found. bwahahahahahaha." She stopped the off-road jeep at a random location, grabbed what she thought she needed to clean up, the high she was feeling made her sense of caution sloppier than she intended to get physically.
It did not help that the all too familiar yet more intense than ever smell of the mud had hypnotized her into her feral sinking-loving self, complete with what can only be described as quicksander instincts. The dangerous smell of natural struggle carried her as if she was being dragged by an actual person. The random thought "What do people see in manure sinking............ I should have brought paint to this to make myself look tribal. I will next time." as she debates whether to jump off the edge off the small slope and experience the ultimate thrill of being swallowed, disoriented and not know how deep you sunk before wiggling back to the surface. The purist in her won out as to not let her cliff jumping days influence her first full sink.
She eased her way into the mud it's consistency revealing it's self to be ....... consistent with increasing depth. While presenting the understandable gradual thickening to someone with sinking ambition a person had to sink most of a body length straight down in order to notice a change in consistency. although reflexive minimal wigging was required as she let herself sink past her belly. She stopped moving when she reached the universal sinking reference point of being chest deep. At normal poster the mud was thick enough to create a separate meniscus around both her arms and chest, totaling 3. meniscus resolution and shape change was something she paid attention to.
She intended to sink the rest of the way but in a particular pattern that would honor thrill. She gently tried to move her body, stretch her arms against it, lean all bound together by pretend struggle. Definitely nothing firm, going down and for a peat-like substance it stretches deceptively easy. she could tell she could get out but the unexpected way it reacted to the nuance of her movements made it worth it. She was going all the way down almost no matter what and it was reasonably difficult to even speed up the sinking. Her skill lever made it to where any mock panic she felt was mostly biased to the limits of her stupidity of finding a sinking challenge rather than the efficiency of escaping. the mud concluded rolling over her shoulders as now it was up to her neck.
Even the meniscus interface with her skin was preying on her jawline. When she opened and closed her hands under the surface she could still see small mounds moving. Although it was be a hybrid combination she decided almost all the tilting back of her head would be done by the mud with only residual effort on her part. With strangely intuitive moments she sank down further until the meniscus was now neatly around her face. Her head tilted up and her face being at the bottom of a crater whos walls dominated her vision into a window of the entire world outside that would soon close.
"I wanna go to sleep so bad." she thought but for a moment was not completely sure she said or though. This was the definition of comfort. She push as she felt to completely close over her face and she was decent ways under the mud. She enjoyed the resistance against her moch struggles with no hint of a bottom if she went 10 times deeper. Out of playfulness she opened her mouth and let in as much as she could without gagging before trying to open her eyes. Her open eyes are greeted by some discomfort but nothing that forced a blink or that couldn't be adjusted to. Sinking love to open their eyes and mouth under mud as well as get naked.
She let herself just hang there under the surface in complete surrender. She jokingly though "What if I seriously blacked out right now? How would they figure out what happened to me? Definitely not a bad way to go." Collecting herself from the ecstasy just enough to break the surface her face was obviously covered so thickly that she had to poke a hole with her breath. Letting her barely surface form linger a bit long she then started the clumsy crawl back to ....... firm land to clean up.
Upon becoming presentable to the world again she realized there is a decent chance she will actually some day die even if it's from going extremely deep under the mud. It didn't bother her that much but she had the calm maturity of what acceptable risks really are. It was a ........soft way of making peace with her mortality. But experiences like this should be shared.
Upon getting out she made a staggering path back to her jeep as it was almost as if she forgot how to move in dry land. The sea of endorphins in her fading to a confident high that would become part of her personality. Was sharing it with a lucky boyfriend too much to ask?
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